


a weed that wrecks and saves the house

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Marriage, Sex, a little dark, like pretty explicit at least for me, more than a little possessive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Stevie doesn’t like to wear his wedding ring. He doesn’t say as much, because he has a basic sense of decency. But he just doesn’t like to wear it. He takes it off when he washes his hands. He takes it off when he showers.Sometimes he forgets to put it back on.And there’s only so many times Jamie can look at him and think, with a sigh, oh my husband has just forgotten to put his wedding ring on. Again.





	a weed that wrecks and saves the house

     Stevie doesn’t like to wear his wedding ring. He doesn’t say as much, because he has a basic sense of decency. But he just doesn’t like to wear it. He takes it off when he washes his hands. He takes it off when he showers.

 

Sometimes he forgets to put it back on.

 

And there’s only so many times Jamie can look at him and think, with a sigh, _oh my husband has just forgotten to put his wedding ring on. Again._

 

Steven just likes to take it off, and that shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is. They’d gotten married as a spur of the moment sort of thing, a sort of declaration that being on separate continents wouldn’t keep them from being together. It was the sort of impetuous decision that they were probably far too old to be making when they did.

 

And the distance, of course, had kept them from being together. They were stupid to think otherwise. Or desperate, perhaps. But in the end, Stevie came back. He always comes back, and Jamie doesn’t know if he can ask for more than that.

 

It’s been going on a while.

 

Stevie comes home one Tuesday night and kisses Jamie like he always does when he gets home. He strips off his shirt before heading into the shower and Jamie can’t take his eyes off the mouth-shaped bruise where his neck meets his shoulder.

 

Jamie wasn’t the one who left it there. He hadn’t felt the need to mark up his partners since he was about seventeen, and after he’d put a wedding ring on that finger, he’d figured they were well beyond possessive hickeys.

 

There’s an itch, along the back of his spine, and he scratches absently, grimacing as part of a scab tears away under his fingernail.

 

He doesn’t have any room to be angry.

 

Stevie comes out of the shower looking almost perfect, other than that ugly bruise marring his perfect neck. Jamie worries his lip between his teeth for a moment, and decides. He pulls Stevie close and kisses him hard.

 

His husband leans into the kiss, returns it with every iota of passion they’d ever shared between them coming to life all at once. Stevie grins at him, turning onto his hands and knees and reaching for the bedside drawer.

 

“Not a fucking chance,” Jamie growls, “you’ll look at me when I fuck you, Steven.” He puts his hands on Stevie’s torso, grip not particularly gentle, but not particularly forceful either. Stevie takes the hint and turns over, laying on his back.

 

This is a different game they’re playing. A familiar one, but it’s still early enough that he isn’t quite sure of the tone. Stevie tries for sweet and innocent and doe-eyed for a moment. It reminds Jamie of their first time, fumbling in the lamplight of the hotel, two scrawny boys, no condom, improvising lube from the hotel lotion. Of course, Stevie hadn’t been pretending then. That had been all genuine, all his beautiful youth and innocence.

 

Jamie wonders when it began to be a show, wonders if it was really gone after that first time, or whether it faded slowly.

 

“Don’t give me those angel eyes,” he snaps. “Was he good, when he fucked you? Did you scream for him? Look at how he marked you all up, how he marked up my husband. Honestly, does he have an ounce of shame? I loan you out to him, and he returns you to me like this? Damaged?” He traces the dark purplish-blue of the bruise and suddenly presses his nail into it, watching how Stevie flinches a little.

 

“You can fuck him, Steven,” Jamie purrs, and it sounds less like a housecat and more like an apex predator, a tiger on the hunt, “but if he gives you bruises, I’ll give you bruises.”

 

He leans down and presses his teeth into the bruise, biting hard. He tongues over the spot perfunctorily, and shifts to the other side of Stevie’s neck, to skin that is perfect and unmarred.

 

For now.

 

He bites again.

 

He takes in his handiwork and pulls away, surveying his canvas to decide where next he ought to paint. The sharp jut of Stevie’s hip calls out to him, and he isn’t in much of a mood to deny his instincts tonight.

 

Stevie’s expression is beautifully open, at the sharp pain-pleasure of the bite, at the overwhelming feeling of already-sensitive skin being worshipped with Jamie’s tongue after his teeth have done their work. He looks absolutely wrecked, and Jamie doubts Xabi could give him this. He doubts anybody could look at his flawless husband and take him like this, take him apart until he’s squirming, begging, gasping—

 

He hides his smirk against Stevie’s skin, licking lazily at his hard cock for a few moments before he pulls away, ignoring Stevie’s whine of protest. He’s not done with what he wants, after all.

 

He lifts up Stevie’s right leg, settles it so his foot is planted into the mattress and leaves a trail on the inside of his thigh, from just above his knee to just at the crease between his thigh and his groin.

 

“Who do you belong to, Steven?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

 

“You.”

 

“Say my name.”

 

“ _Jamie_. I belong to— _oh!_ I belong to you, Jamie, please—“

 

He yields too easily, his husband. Jamie narrows his eyes, wonders at the cause of it. He didn’t marry a pushover, after all. The other shoe will drop one of these days. The idea of divorce papers flash through his mind for a fraction of a second before he dismisses it out of hand. It won’t happen like that.

 

Nobody holds all of Steven Gerrard in their hands or in their hearts, but nobody holds as much as Jamie does. That much he knows.

 

“He better have worn a condom,” Jamie says placidly, “or you better have. Because if you did it without, this ends now.”

 

“I did.” Stevie’s voice is a thousand times too steady, “I always do.”

 

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Husband of the year, you are,” he mutters, only an instant before he takes Stevie into his mouth, sinking all the way down in a single, smooth motion before bobbing his head.

 

The sound Stevie lets out in response is so indescribably gorgeous Jamie wants to have it etched into his eardrums so he can hear it always. He keeps sucking steadily, and when Stevie’s hips start to jerk, when he senses that he’s about to lose control, he pulls back.

 

“Did you honestly think you were going to fuck someone else and then I was gonna suck your cock when you came home?” Jamie’s smile has a razor-sharp edge to it, and he can feel it cutting into him as the same time as it cuts into Stevie. “Really, _sweetheart_ , do you think I’m that fucking pathetic?”

 

“Depends. Are you sober enough to get it up tonight?”

 

It’s a low blow, and honestly, Jamie hadn’t expected any other kind. He’s running on love’s not-so-distant cousin, passion fueled by fury rather than love.

 

He rises up to his knees, lets Stevie see for himself exactly how hard he is, and revels in the soft exhalation, awed even after this many years. “I think the question is are you worthy of it? Plenty of pretty young things out there willing to do anything for a man with a hard cock and a bit of gray at his temples.”

 

“Sure, if you want them to blow their loads before you even get inside them,” Stevie scoffs. There’s a hint of desperation in his eyes, though. The game has high stakes tonight, and he’s not willing to lose.

 

Neither is Jamie.

 

Fortunately for them both, Jamie screwing somebody else is an utter lose-lose scenario. So he leans down low and bites the smirk off of Stevie’s mouth, catching that full lower lip between his teeth and savoring the feeling. He has to pull away for a handful of seconds, to reach into the nightstand and pull out the lube, but as soon as he’s got ahold of it, Stevie’s pulling him back in for another kiss, bending his knees up and letting them fall apart.

 

Jamie doesn’t need an invitation and promptly slicks up two fingers, pausing a moment to make sure the lube is warm before he presses up against Stevie’s entrance, one finger sliding in easily.

 

“Did he fuck you here?” Jamie asks again, “tell me right now, Steven. Did Xabi fuck your ass?” He twists his finger harshly and Stevie almost arches off the bed.

 

“No! No, he didn’t. He didn’t, I promise you—“

 

Jamie might be an idiot, but he takes his word for it. “Haven’t been fucking other men, have you, Steven?”

 

“No—nobody, just—myself, when you’re gone. Fingered myself when you were gone, J—pretended it was you.”

 

Again, Jamie accepts it, knowing full well that it might be a lie. He doesn’t know if he believes it, in all honesty, but he does know that he wants to, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath for a moment, imagining it the way Stevie had described it.

 

The image behind his closed eyelids makes it seem more real, and it’s easier to accept his husband’s word for it. He slips another finger in, scissoring and pushing in deep, bending slightly to find Stevie’s prostate.

 

Stevie lets out a quiet gasp. “There—there— _more_!”

 

Jamie pulls his fingers out, denying him, and slicks himself up quickly, entering Stevie in a single, smooth stroke until he bottoms out. Stevie promptly starts squirming, trying to stimulate his own prostate with Jamie’s cock.

 

Jamie tuts a little, and his hands clamp onto Stevie’s hips, holding him in place, maybe a little bit too tight. He doesn’t mind the idea of bruises on his husband’s hips tomorrow, though, and keeps squeezing.

 

He pulls out almost all the way and presses back in, setting a punishing pace. Stevie arches into every thrust. His eyes close for a moment.

 

“Look up at me,” Jamie orders, “I don’t want you picturing him.”

 

“I—I wasn’t. I don’t. Not—with—you—“ Stevie moans, “ _Jamie_ , please!”

 

Jamie takes Stevie’s hands in his own and presses them against the mattress, intertwining their fingers. But Stevie pulls out of the grip to throw his arms around his neck and holds tight, and a moment later, he’s reopening the scratches on Jamie’s back.

 

“Was he as good as me?” he asks, pupils blown wide as he looks up into Jamie’s eyes.

 

“No.” It’s the most basic of reassurances that he can offer, but it’s about all he can manage, focusing instead on showing Stevie how much he’s enjoying this, now.

 

Stevie’s fingers keep digging into him, though, reopening the flesh, and he feels the sparks of pain even as he succumbs to the wave of pleasure that is Stevie’s body wrapped around him, pulling him in further, harder, as if trying to make them into a single person.

 

Stevie cries out, a ragged desperation in his voice that Jamie knows means he’s close.

 

“Come, Stevie. Come for me.”

 

Stevie does, and his fingers tense during his climax, drawing blood from Jamie’s back as his body draws out Jamie’s orgasm.

 

Jamie pulls out slowly and lays down next to him—on his belly.

 

“I’m not sorry,” Stevie says softly, tracing the fresh scratches on his back, “if he scratches, I’ll scar.”

 

“And if he bites, I’ll bite twice as hard and twice as long.”

 

Stevie hums, and Jamie takes it for agreement and lets himself be pulled close to his husband’s warm body. Exhausted, they both drift off to sleep.

 

Jamie wakes to Stevie trying to ease himself out of bed, and takes in the sight of him with lazy satisfaction, purplish bruises on his hipbones and his neck, and the inside of his thigh. He reaches out, catching Stevie’s hand—his left, with the warm metal of his wedding band.

 

“No more marks,” he says quietly, “on either of us. Agreed?”

 

Stevie nods. “Agreed. Come shower with me, love. Or bath, I’m sore from last night.”

 

“Too much?”

 

Stevie shakes his head. “You know what I can handle. You pushed right up to the line, but you didn’t cross it.”

 

When they get out of the shower, Jamie checks his phone.

 

_New message from: Gary Neville_

_Same time next week?_

 

Jamie thinks for a moment, contemplating his wedding ring. He watches his husband get dressed, and types out a quick response.

 

\---

 

Stevie’s phone lights up over dinner that night, and Jamie coughs delicately, nodding at it, but not reaching for it. Stevie picks it up, looks at Jamie with a peculiar emotion in his eyes, achingly familiar, and responds to the message.

 

“If Xabi marks you up again, I’ll kill him,” Jamie says, voice carefully even.

 

“And tell Neville that if he scratches my husband again, I’ll cut his hands off.” Stevie returns, just as even. He takes another bite of his food, chewing slowly, and Jamie reaches out and takes his hand, intertwining their fingers. 

**Author's Note:**

> for the word prompt for January:   
> Marriage as a Vine that Climbs the Porch  
> and forces the siding off the house like loose skin  
> and we want to chop it down but can’t  
> and it’s weed fused into wood, weed that wrecks  
> and saves the house.  
> \- Nicole Cooley (2018)


End file.
